‘That’s okay then.’ He turns round and eyes me up for a fraction longer than is comfortable, the flecked green in his hazel eyes dancing under the hallway light. ‘I’ll bring everything in,’ he says. ‘You put the kettle on, then perhaps we can open them cards?’
An hour later, I sing Cory to sleep as the white, wooden rocking chair gently rocks back and forth beneath us. On one side of the nursery, Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddle-Duck fly kites into a pale-blue sky, their feet balancing on the top of minty-green hills. On the wall opposite, the words ‘Once Upon a Time…’ signify the beginning of our Happily Ever After. It really does feel like a fairy tale; the beautiful nursery, the doting husband, the scrumptious little newborn who snores softly in my arms.
Thankfully, the cards on the mat all turned out to be from familiar well-wishers, and for a moment that made everything all right. But then the doubt crept back in, and the message inside that card started to play on a loop over and over until suddenly the Big Bad Wolf was knocking on the door and it took all of my strength not to let him in.
The night is now as black as tar, transforming the bay window into a colourless mirror. My heart soars as I study mine and Cory’s reflections in the glass, a mother nursing her son, his tummy full and his bottle drained. I feel a stab of guilt that I haven’t been able to breastfeed him, especially given the nutritional benefits. I wanted to, really I did. But how could I ever be sure he was full? And what if I got ill and passed it on to him somehow? James accused me of panicking when I presented my typed-up list of pros and cons. He said breastfeeding was the most natural thing in the world. ‘That’s what they’re made for, Lou,’ he laughed, a grin creeping onto his face. ‘Among other things obviously.’ I did think about what he said. I flitted backwards and forwards for months, joining support groups on the Internet and painstakingly trawling through the self-help guides where the illustrations always depicted women with smiley faces and nipples which could cut glass. But in the end I decided bottle-feeding was the safer option. After all, you can never be too careful where infant starvation is concerned.
‘Hey, I thought you were coming downstairs after he’d fallen asleep?’ James appears at the open door, his hair shower-wet, causing it to curl up at the ends. He smells of hot soap, his naked chest revealing toned abs which I’d almost forgotten existed. I didn’t allow sex during pregnancy, was terrified he’d unintentionally puncture the baby’s head. They do say a baby’s skull is the last thing to form, don’t they?
‘Well, here’s the problem.’ I bite the inside of my cheek, hope he’ll figure out what I’m trying to say and save me from actually saying it.
‘What, Lou?’ He leans against the door frame. ‘Go on, out with it.’
‘I’ve been doing some research.’
He tries to suppress a grin but it’s too late; I catch it as it turns up the corner of his top lip. ‘And what research is that, may I ask?’
‘Well… we all know babies are meant to sleep in their parents’ room for the first six months. But, some experts actually advise you to have your sleeping baby by your side at all times.’
‘I see.’ James raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Even if said baby has a ridiculously expensive CCTV camera wired into his nursery which his mother absolutely had to have?’
‘Not even.’ I fold over my bottom lip. ‘And besides, he might miss us.’
James enters the room and walks around to the back of the rocking chair, positioning himself just behind me. His breath is hot and slippery in my ear as he leans over me. ‘I think we might miss him too.’
I glance back at him. ‘So you agree?’
‘Of course.’ He pecks me on the cheek. ‘And anyway, who in their right mind forks out three months’ wages on a nursery and then actually puts their baby in it?’
I laugh. ‘Not anybody sane, that’s for sure!’
‘Exactly. So, Mrs Carter…’ He drapes his arms over my shoulders, criss-crossing them like the sleeves of a sweater. ‘Would you like me to bring the Moses basket downstairs so we can finally sit down to eat dinner, or how about I get the picnic basket from the boot and we have jam sandwiches and squash with Peter Rabbit and Tweety Bird on this fine summer’s day?’
‘It’s Jemima Puddle-Duck.’
He laughs. ‘Obviously I knew that.’
‘Cooey. Anybody in?’ The distinct sound of my mother-in-law’s voice travels up the stairs, closely followed by the slamming of the front door.
‘Oh God.’ James rests his chin on the top of my head. ‘You absolutely have to be joking me.’
‘Well,’ I sigh. ‘Looks like Mr Tod’s just turned up and pissed all over the picnic.’
‘I cannot believe you didn’t call me the moment you got home!’ My mother-in-law, Tamzin, greets us at the bottom of the stairs, her white perm reminding me of a dandelion. ‘I wanted to come to the hospital the night he was born but your father was in no fit state to drive,’ she says to James. ‘Eight years I’ve waited for this grand-baby and he shows up pissed as a pickled fart! And then last night he had to play darts. Darts can you believe? Felt like throwing a bulls-eye right in his bastard eye!’
‘It was the final!’ A meek voice, belonging to my father-in-law, Doug, comes from somewhere behind Tamzin’s fluffy bouffant. ‘All right, James lad, all right, Lou.’
‘My God, he’s totally delicious. Give him here.’ Tamzin holds out her hands as if she’s about to catch a rugby ball.
‘Well, all right but…’ I tip my head over towards the lounge. ‘Let’s sit down first and then you can.’
‘Don’t be such a bloody fusspot,’ she titters, causing Cory to flinch in my arms. ‘I’ve had two of my own, don’t forget. They’re not made of bloody glass, you know? In fact, Doug rolled over on our David when he was a nipper. Probably pissed then an’ all, wasn’t you?’ She turns round and glares at him.
I manage to safely herd both Tamzin and Doug into the lounge, despite already wanting to show them the door. It’s not that I dislike my in-laws; it’s just, well, to put it mildly, they are an absolute pain in the arse. ‘Why don’t you sit down with Cory and I’ll put the kettle on?’ I begin to furiously plump up a fluffy cushion on the end of the sofa, hopeful that Tamzin will sit down and allow me to place Cory safely into her arms.
‘Very well,’ she says, for once doing as she’s told. ‘Ahh, isn’t he cute?’ She takes hold of him gently which is a relief, her eyes crinkling up behind her spectacles as she places him in the crook of her arm. ‘Although I must admit I’ve seen better.’
‘Mother!’ James throws her a look.
‘Oh, I’m only joking. Take a bloody chill pill. Isn’t that what you kids say nowadays?’
‘What would you like to drink, Tamzin – tea, coffee?’ I always find that where my mother-in-law is concerned, it’s best to change the subject as quickly as possible.
‘No, none of that rubbish for me. Do us a whiskey, will you, love? My son’s not firing blanks after all. That’s cause for celebration!’
With that said, I quickly retreat from the lounge – the wolf’s claws scraping against the drainpipe as he scurries up the chimney.
Half an hour later, James brings in a second pot of tea along with a third whiskey on the rocks for Tamzin. Cory is now safely in my arms, Tamzin’s ‘infatuation’ having lasted all of five minutes.
‘So then…’ Doug clasps his hands together and raises his eyes up into his head as if thinking of something to say. ‘He’s a little cracker all right.’ He takes a slurp of his tea and smacks his bulbous lips firmly together. ‘God, it’s nice to finally be able to have a cuppa, I tell you.’ He is still dressed in his paint-splattered overalls and I can almost picture him stepping through the door and instantly being frogmarched here.
‘You’re right, he is a cracker. Just like his daddy.’ I smile over at James but he doesn’t return the gesture. ‘You all right?’ I ask him, unsure what’s changed.